I Love Paris in the Springtime
by Mickleditch
Summary: [Sweet Revenge, 1990] Paris is absolutely the best place to wake up in love. Just a fluffy little morning sex vignette.


Kate propped herself up on her elbows in a puddle of sunshine, disturbing John, who was lying on his belly in the warmth with one arm flung over her. He stirred, cracking open one eye, his face still half-buried deep in the pillow as he looked at her. "What's the matter?"

"It's nearly _ten._ I have that audition this afternoon, you know?"

"And?"

"And, I have to perform something I made up. I wanted to get up early so I could rehearse."

"Isn't it a romantic play?"

"Well, yes, but -"

"Maybe you need to take the method acting route." John's arm tightened around her waist. "Parisian mornings are supposed to be for lying in bed."

"I guess you have a point," Kate conceded. It wasn't very hard to give in. It was a beautiful spring morning, a pretty spring when everything in the city seemed to turn green at the same time, green in the way that Europe did it, and the flowers in the parks and hedgerows were so thick that the air was like honey The scent of cherry, apple, and creamy magnolia spilled in through the open window, from where the blossoms hung heavily above lawns of golden buttercups and daffodils. The bed, conversely, smelled like John; his soap and his hair and and the faint tang of his sweat. They both smelled just as lovely.

Flopping back again, she tried to roll over to her side to face him, but he held on tight, cuddling up closer every time she moved. Kate crooked her neck and rested her head against John's, absorbing the rhythm of his breathing. After a moment, she managed to angle her face to get her lips in contact with his, and he returned the kiss with sufficient intimacy that she thought that if she'd been in a romance novel, or even just standing up, her knees might have given out.

When she finally managed to stop, she said, "You know, keep that up, and we might never, ever leave this bed again. I'll use you as a love slave."

"Is that a promise?"

"I can be a bad girl," she said, teasingly.

"Your kisses aren't bad."

"Aren't you scared I'll keep you away from the typewriter and you'll starve?"

"I'm starving right now." John whispered it into Kate's ear, the vibration of it both sending a delicious little shiver down her spine and making her bated breath come out as a squeaky hiccup of laughter. She lifted one hand and slid her fingers into his hair, combing through the thick curls.

"I love you," she said, sincerely, "and I want you, and you're very wonderful. And sometimes you make me crazy."

"I hope it's a good kind of crazy." His fingers brushed the tender skin inside her elbow. "And I might have written something yesterday that works for your audition."

Kate abruptly lifted her head, blinking at him. "Are you serious?"

John lifted the corner of her pillow, accompanying the movement with a twitch of his eyebrow that indicated that she should look underneath.

When she slipped her hand between the case and the sheet, her fingers touched something that she'd been too distracted to notice when she'd woken up. Inside the envelope she pulled out were a few sheets of paper, glued to each other in one or two spots by correction fluid. Kate eased them apart gently, without tearing them, a game of patience that she played with the tip of her tongue between her teeth. A soft smile played around her mouth as she read the lines. It was a quirky, funny, sweet little monologue that might not be the next blockbuster novel, but only solidified her conviction that John could _write_.

"You really wrote this for me?"

"I really wrote it for you. So now you don't need to rehearse, and we can stay here. And later you can come for an April stroll with a man who you already know is going to kiss you as you walk down the Seine, and we can pick up _pain, fromage, jambon,_ and chocolate chip muesli. Because you're the only woman in Paris who actually does eat chocolate chip muesli for breakfast."

She kissed him again for that, long and slow. "I have to read it through at least one time."

"Am I stopping you?" He shifted into a new position, one that let him lean over her and kiss her forehead and her nose.

Mornings were their holding hands time, their couch in front of the TV time, their coffee and toast time, and, usually, since Kate most often worked evening shifts, their sex time. Sex without thinking, a dreamy journey from sleep to pleasure before heading onwards to the day; nothing complicated, and then lying together in drowsy blissful union. Kate couldn't remember having had sex like that before; not so easy, not so much fun. She found herself wondering if _mornings_ had been like this before, and then reminded herself that of course they hadn't. They used to feel like Monday even when it wasn't, and now they felt like Sunday regardless.

"Yes," she said, "you are."

He teased down the sheet, and she pulled him close, first with her one free hand, then, dropping the paper, with both. Pressing her belly tight to his, she flattened her breasts against him.

"You still owe me if I flunk this audition."

John kissed her again. "So tell me how to work off my debts."

"I'll think of something."

"You could make me help you when you tie your hair up."

Kate smiled, absently. "You like it like that?"

"I can see your ears. They're my second favorite part of your body."

"What's your favorite?"

"All the rest of it."

He raised himself to his elbows above her, his body tessallating her own very naturally, his legs tangling with hers and his knee separating her thighs. She snuggled against him, enjoying the weight and warmth. When she smiled into his skin and brushed her mouth against him, she felt his nipple stiffen where her lips had touched. John trailed his lips down her jaw, waiting for an indication that she wanted what he did. After another moment, she gave it, reaching down to gather him in her hand.

"I thought you were supposed to be reading," he said against her lips.

Kate slid her arms around his neck, tilting her chin to give him free access to bury his face against the curve of her throat. "Was I? I can't remember." She wrapped her arms around his back as he pressed forward, raising her knees to help put him inside her.

Somewhere outside, a bird sang, bunches of sweetness between the intermittent stop-start of the traffic below.

Paris in the spring was so much better this time around.


End file.
